Becoming the People We Read About & Why History's Still Relevant

Suffering from a bout of insomnia this morning, I polished off Julia Child's My Life in France, a great little book (not nearly as lengthy as her cookbooks) that I'd been stuck on for about a week; it's amazing how I read half in the book in a fit of rest and then, sleepless, finished off 150 pages+ this morning. It seems so odd when I think about some of the other books I have going that I'm muddling through: The Emperor of All Maladies and The Worst Hard Time, the former because of its sometimes-lengthy tangents into the science and concomitant scientific-jargon of cancer and the latter for unknown reasons. Nonetheless, it's always satisfying to complete a book, especially one whose author I've been imitating for a week or so in the kitchen. The result has been some delicious concoctions and the conclusion that I'm imitating Meryl Streep playing Julia Child, not actually Julia Child. (I just can't master the finer, airy tones of her voice; I can only make myself more high-pitched.)

Oh how adorable Paul and Julia Child were, always choosing to send out Valentine's Day cards because Christmas was simply too hectic for them.

At the moment, I've got some delicious honey-cinnamon-butter-glazed squash in the oven and it looks promising! But, I couldn't help but be conscious of the fact that in my journal today I recorded all the wonderful food I've been eating for the past few days while Nathan was visiting. There's a sense that as I read more, I try to write more. This conclusion doesn't seem extraordinary, but it does have vast implications. It means that as I write more, I trove my mind for increasing details to be recalled to the page. It's giving my writing (journal-writing, at least) a broader consciousness that means I am recording experiences I wouldn't otherwise note. Having watched (okay, I muddled through) the Republican debate this weekend, I also scribbled-off a few political observations. The result: a journal that is decreasingly selfish. Writing seems to be becoming a less selfish pursuit than before as my broader, worldly observations turn into essays, commentaries on news websites, etc. Maybe I'm just being optimistic.

As a historian, I found it difficult to take Julia Child at face value. Forgive me, I'm a natural skeptic (which, according to some people make me a negativist). It was quite the conflict, to love her and interrogate her every word simultaneously. What I loved most was her self-consciousness, her belief in her own ignorance, her feelings that she was never quite good enough that co-existed with her natural optimism...how refreshing to discover someone quite like me! It was also another check mark on the list of strong women, women I love. The history of women, especially those who forge their own paths resembles and do it outside the mainstream movements. (She talks so little about the way in which she was an icon for women.) I guess, maybe that is how I imagine myself someday, that is, existing outside the mainstream of queer people and yet blazing a path for others. Oh the dreams Julia Child gives me!

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Here's a link to a great article about jobs and historians (notice: not jobs for historians) from The Chronicle: http://chronicle.com/article/Historians-Reflect-on-Forces/130262/

Given my personal squabbles with UMF's History Department and my own feelings about history, I found the article timely and poignant. It touched on feelings I hadn't really been able to verbalize: this idea that I am going into the field of Social Work, but I am a trained Humanities and Social Sciences scholar and that I will find a place for those skills within Social Work and, more importantly, within the job market.

Coma-post (haha!)

Do you ever have one of those books that you can't put down? I started Zachary Mexico's China Underground on Wednesday and breezed through the first hundred pages and read the last 200 last night, finishing just after midnight. It wasn't one of those so-called profound books and I won't be talking about how it changed my life, but it was addicting. Mexico has this conversational, sing-songy way of writing that just flows from chapter to chapter. It's a travelogue and he's never in one place for very long (I suspect some critic would cite the book as lacking "depth."), but his insights and criticisms are spot on. He's not overly-idealistic about China, but he's not ethnocentric either.

But alas, this is not a blog of book reviews. It has led me to contemplate what kind of reader I am or want to become. When I leave college, I don't want to stop reading. Indeed, I want to devour more than ever because I won't have the demands of school hounding me. But what kind of reader am I? Well, most of the time I think of myself as not having read enough. I don't know enough history; I haven't read enough the classics; I'm over-read in a certain area or time period, etc. I'm not blameless, but I suspect that college has made me one of those over-neurotic types that never thinks he's good enough and thus prone to panic and self-doubt on a regular basis. Or was that my Catholic upbringing? Let's just hope I'm not famous enough at my death to warrant a publication of my journals...the analysis, psycho and otherwise, would keep people occupied for centuries.

The last two weeks have been hard. The holidays always make me more pensive. Myles and I decided to just be friends, which is as complex as it sounds. One of my biggest supporters in my college career recently rebuked me in a controversy that seems to be ever-unfolding. All of it has culminated in a decision I believe is best for me: I am NOT going to apply to the University of Iowa. Over the past few days I've gone from telling myself I'm not ready for a doctoral program to I hate what universities have become and are becoming and I don't want to be in that environment. If I am accepted to USM for Social Work, I will go, but right now I am planning for other alternatives for next year. The mystery of it all frustrates and scares me. And that's where I am right now.

I'm about to go make some delicious (pray!) pizzas and enjoy some time with friends. It's a small task and pizza isn't that hard to make, but I need to find my success and satisfaction in the little things in life.

Queering the Kitchen: EpicMealTime

With overflowing booze and bacon, Ernest Hemingway could only be proud. EpicMealTime, the sensational(ized) YouTube cooking channel has become all the rave in the last few months, with its host, a burly Canadian (actually, all three hosts are Canadians) and I couldn't resist discussing them!

Before reading further, check out a few of my favorite episodes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BaKcl0Qg13o, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYxO3Y-wOrM&feature=relmfu, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eah23WvLYsQ&feature=relmfu, and http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Xc5wIpUenQ

Michael Warner and Lauren Berlant, in their seminal essay "Sex in Public," theorize that the projection of national culture (i.e. heternormative white culture) subjugates the sexuality of its citizens; consequently, spaces for acting out sexuality (cinemas, clubs, print and online mediums) emerge. In this case, the kitchen becomes the space in which sexuality emerges, a space featuring multiple sexualities, a queer space. In EMT we see the dual narratives of national and globalized identities forming simultaneously as the series develops. The hosts use bacon and syrup as their signifiers for Canadian, while frequently appearing in supermarkets and ethnic restaurants. The latter locations indicate that the hosts have broken the barrier into a global community of consumerism and as such lose some of their Canadianess. 

The absence of hardened nationalism allows the hosts and guest stars to produce public sex, that is acts which  express sexuality. One of the hosts, Alex Perrault has become simply "MusclesGlasses" and the main host, Harley Morenstein affectionately refers to him as such. Inspired by fanfare, Morenstein engages in openly homosocial interaction, girded by undertones of homosexuality. He devalues the body in the same way as viewers, leaving him without a fully-expressed identity; MusclesGlasses is a condensed moniker summarizing Perrault's status as a masculine, accessorized body. There's also the wonderful ejaculatory imagery which seemingly appears in every episode: while making tacos, the men promise that the female tasters will sour cream; a later episode features ice cream. Morenstein's use of inflection is key to deploying his sexual commentary. 

Finally, there are the thinly-veiled acts of explicit homosexual sex. On a trip home to see his Dad, MusclesGlasses is fed taffy on a large stick by Morenstein who visibly enjoys feeding his the phallic object with its sweet nectar. Feeding each other food as symbolic of the blowjob has become a theme appearing in other episodes as well. Or, in "The Black Legend," the men make a giant crepe and find two girls to eat it in a play on girl-on-girl porn with Morenstein as the voyeur in the background, doing his best to appearing as if he is masturbating.

Kindly, the men want us to know that we can also be men like them with the sale of shirts that read "&Baconstrips&Baconstrips&Baconstrips," a phrase that is exalted in each non-dessert episode. The best we Americans can muster in retort to these virile Canadians: Vegan Meal Time (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbBCWZue57M). The Swedes have concocted a whole series entitled "Regular Ordinary Swedish Meal Time" making such delicious treats as "Macho Salad," a title meant to outdo EMT's "Meat Salad."

Bon Appetit!